


Blood Trails

by ElysianStars



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElysianStars/pseuds/ElysianStars
Summary: After mysteriously losing contact with Zevran, the Warden travels to Antiva to discover what happened to him. The results include killing, lovemaking, and the occasional witty retort for good measure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the follow-up to Correspondence Amorosa, but it's not essential to read that first to figure out what's going on here.  
> The codices are mostly to add atmosphere, rather than featuring in the plot. Mostly.

Codex: Unfinished Draft of an Autobiography

As we headed west, I observed the seasons change around us, approaching winter. Mundane as this may sound, it was new to me and not particularly welcome. You might imagine that Kinloch Hold, an ancient tower in the middle of a lake, is full of icy draughts, but recall that it houses dozens of people who can conjure fire at their fingertips (albeit under strict supervision). I wasn't accustomed to such cold.

In addition to fighting darkspawn, my abilities were now used to kindle damp firewood, dry clothing, and heat water so that we could bathe. Still, I was glad to contribute to the camp. I'd never gotten the hang of pitching a tent, which is a definite flaw in an adventurer.

It was around this time that Zevran and I first became intimate. I'm unsure how to speak of this, aware it will be scrutinised by strangers. Suffice to say, we made love with a passion I had not known before, but there was no talk of love between us. We were on a dangerous quest that one or both might not survive, 'taking pleasure where we could', as he said. For a time, that was enough.

Obviously, I no longer feared he would try to assassinate me. Besides, _he_ left his daggers and poisons outside the tent. _I_ could still conjure fire at my fingertips.

 

* * *

 

The cabin rocked unexpectedly, sending the quill skittering across the paper in a scrawl of wet ink. Warden-Commander Surana frowned, telling himself this was only a draft and didn't need to look flawless. Unconvinced, he set it aside. His train of thought was interrupted, anyway.

Travel by ship wasn't all bad. No darkspawn here, and no chance someone might come knocking with stories of bandits, demons or treacherous nobles for him to deal with. He could sit quietly, by the Fade-gifted light of his staff, and study in a way he'd seldom had time for since leaving the Circle. A book on the Antivan language, bound in red leather, and another on its geography. A book on poisons and antidotes, in case things went badly at his destination, the pages thin and crackling like dried leaves. A packet of letters, kept carefully in waterproof wrappings, which he'd read enough times to recite by heart. Words of affection, desire, even terrible poetry. Reminders of why he was here.

His last three letters to Zevran had received no reply. Months passed in waiting, until anticipation became fear at the silence. Had Zevran's luck against the Crows run out? It could happen, and Surana wouldn't know of it, pining for a man whose bones were scattered a thousand miles away. That was the image which pulled him from Vigil's Keep, onto this ship headed for Rialto Bay.

He wondered how the Keep fared without him. He'd considered bringing his mabari along, but knowing how poorly dogs were liked in Antiva, it seemed better to leave it in Ferelden. It was now highly sought after to sire puppies – 'my dog's father fought the Archdemon' made for a good bragging point, apparently. As for his two-legged companions, this wasn't a matter to involve them in. So, better to travel alone, this once.

The air grew warm as they sailed north, the ocean's palette shifting from murky greys to deep, dazzling blues. Each day he watched the horizon, thinking it a shame that his magic could do nothing to speed the ship (he could summon a blizzard to rip sails apart, but not fill them with a guiding wind). He finished his books, and began re-reading, murmuring Antivan words under his breath to master the pronunciation. He imagined different ways a reunion might go – lingering on the happier ones, where Zevran was delighted to see him, explaining how letters had been lost through a series of misadventures. They would laugh about it, in each other's arms, and vow never to be parted for so long again.

Sometimes he couldn't drag his mind from darker possibilities. An inner voice whispered that he was preparing himself, being realistic, the way he'd imagined grieving for each of his companions if they fell against the Archdemon. Morbid thoughts which helped nothing, only pained him. He was still not quite accustomed to having friends, or to loving, so the fear of loss was likewise new and sharp-edged.

Sometimes he entertained a possibility which was kind in one way, cruel in another. Zevran could be safe, but after returning to the splendours of his homeland, fond memories of Ferelden had faded. Gradually his love for a quiet, sheltered mage with tainted blood had waned, replaced by the patterns he'd previously favoured of hopping from bed to bed, denying no pretty, sparkling thing that caught his eye.

Surana couldn't really believe that, though. Not when he recalled the day they said goodbye, the tightness of their embraces, Zevran's voice as he whispered a few last endearments. His amber eyes, early laughter lines beginning to form at their edges. The warmth of his hands, sometimes gentle, sometimes satisfyingly firm. His shameless and inviting smile. And no matter what language he spoke, the meaning of each word was clear, beyond doubt.

Remembering all of that, Surana's resolve would return. Besides, wilting in despair wasn't very fitting for a hero.

 

* * *

 

Codex: The Bride of Silver Scales

Long ago, there was a merchant's son whose favourite pastime was to sail the shining waters of Rialto Bay. One day, while sailing, a mermaid approached and engaged him in conversation. The two were oddly taken with one another, and met again and again, until neither could deny they had fallen in love.

His parents became suspicious, and sent servants to discover what he was up to. The servants noted the route he normally took, then stole his boat, and sailed out in his place to see what they would find. When the mermaid swam up, expecting her beloved, they speared her through the heart, planning to deliver her body to the parents as proof of the story. As she died, she bitterly cursed any human who would lay hands upon her remains.

The son's boat was returned, and he sailed to meet the mermaid as usual, but of course she didn't appear. After weeks of this, he sadly gave up and agreed to marry a woman his parents chose for him, whom he had previously refused.

All might have been well – if his parents had not, in a capricious moment, decided to serve flesh from the mermaid's tail at the wedding feast. While everyone else ate, the son hesitated, looking at the beautiful silver scales of the slab of fish on his plate. Suddenly cries filled the room, as the curse took effect. Guests gasped for air as lungs became gills, cloth ripping as legs merged into tails. The horrified son found himself in a room full of merfolk, including his new bride.

Briefly he considered leaving them to their fate, but none besides his parents were truly guilty. So, one by one, he carried them to the ocean and threw them in. Then he burned his boat, and never sailed again.

_\- A traditional fairytale from Antiva_

 

* * *

 

The town of Rialto sprawled over a cliff face, rising in steep tiers. Docks sat lowest, offering space for weather-beaten rowing boats, grand galleys, and every shape of craft in-between, jostling on the endless tides. Gulls perched on coils of coarse mooring rope, awaiting the return of fishermen to steal a portion of the catch, and warehouses clamoured with the labour of moving cargo. Surana observed all this, but had scarce interest, hurrying on to the town proper.

Higher up, sun-baked plazas overlooked an ocean shining like melted glass. Streets of terraced houses built four or five storeys high, narrow balconies hung with drying laundry, plants in heavy terracotta pots boasting riots of pink flowers or tall leaves spiked like daggers. There could be no mistaking this for any town in Ferelden. Though to be fair, two years ago he couldn't have described any town in Ferelden, either. Not beyond what library books told him.

Bustling crowds, a blur of voices from passers-by, too rapid to translate. Eyes followed him, and he wondered if they were appraising his Grey Warden uniform, mage's staff, or something else. He considered wearing his hood up for anonymity, but already felt too hot, relishing every slight breeze, every plaza he passed through with a fountain's spray cooling the air. He pressed on, checking street signs, trying to note landmarks. Trying to project confidence, as a lone foreigner.

The Thief and Lyre was a middle-to-low-class tavern, air heavy with spices to mask the typical town odours from outside (and from some of the patrons within, probably). This was where his letters for Zevran had been sent, which made it the first lead in tracking him down. The woman behind the bar was an unusually voluptuous elf, hair pinned up with tortoiseshell combs. At this time of day she wasn't busy, and easy to hail.

“Hello, madam? I'm here about letters for Emil,” Surana began, hoping his Antivan was correct ('Emil' being the latest false name Zevran had adopted, since his real one would only attract trouble). At any rate, she didn't look confused, sizing him up with a neutral expression.

“You're not Emil.”

“No, my name is Evarin Surana. I was writing to him. He stopped replying.”

“Oh? Maybe he got bored.” She made a show of polishing a glass, which already looked as clean as it was ever going to get. In a way, her lack of trust was reassuring, for a person involved in cloak-and-dagger activities. Also to her credit, she kept her speech slow for him.

Surana hesitated, trying to recall the words he needed now. It was frustrating, when in his native tongue he had perfect eloquence. And this was _important_. “No, I...I haven't had a reply to my...three letters. You must have two or three. From Ferelden? I'm not from Antiva, it's obvious. I've come to find him.”

“That doesn't guarantee he'd thank me, if I pointed you towards him. If I could do that.”

“He would. But...could you? I think, maybe, he hasn't been here in some time.” Just a guess, to see if she reacted. Still, even if he tried the lure of coins or threat of a blade, his gut told him there was nothing useful here. “I'd like my letters back, then.”

The woman paused, set down the glass, then said, “The last letters for him were taken by someone else. I've nothing else to give, even to a Grey Warden. Even one from Ferelden. If they came again, it would be trouble. Do you understand me?”

He nodded, stoic despite a growing weight of apprehension. No amount of language barriers could obscure who 'they' were. “I see. Thank you for your time.”

He headed back out, into the street's brightness and noise (and straight away, missed the presence of those odour-masking spices). From that conversation, one scenario seemed likely. The Crows learned that Zevran was visiting this place, intercepted his letters, and in response he'd disappeared. Perhaps fought with them? Chances were, he wasn't in Rialto any more.

Ideally, they would have been reunited within hours of Surana's arrival, but he'd known it might take more work than that. For now, he'd find somewhere decent to spend the night, and try not to worry.

It did bother him a little, not being able to retrieve those letters, knowing others had spied into his personal business. Then again, when he and Zevran were first together, there'd been several complaints that their tent wasn't soundproof enough. So maybe the time for modesty was long past – and thinking that, he couldn't help but smile in amused nostalgia. Let his mind linger upon Zevran, and he could always smile. As good a definition of love as any other.

 

* * *

 

 Codex: Cultivating Talents

If one thing can be said in favour of the Crows' brutal training methods, it is the quality of education they provide. Reading and writing are compulsory. Languages are useful, because while the bulk of their work stays within Antiva's borders, it may take them all over Thedas. The perfect assassin should be fluent in two, perhaps three besides their mother tongue.

For poison-making, there is a requisite knowledge of plants, insects and other sources of toxins, and how to extract them. For quick, efficient kills, one must understand biology, the sites of vulnerable blood vessels and nerves. They must be fit and agile, able to scale a wall, pick a lock and carry out other acts of subterfuge. Some are apt at disguises, some at courtly arts such as singing or dancing which might win favour with a mark.

If all else fails, it helps to be good in bed. There is no set curriculum for that, but it doesn't take a genius to realise that seduction is an excellent way to lower someone's guard, slip beneath their armour both literally and figuratively. Whether the assassin actually follows through, and sleeps with a mark before killing them, is usually a matter of personal preference.

\- _From_ A Thrillseeker's Guide to Antiva and Rivain _,_ _by Thomas of Val_ _Foret_

 

* * *

 

 It was the next morning when the Crows confronted him, after leaving the inn he'd slept at (nothing luxurious, but it featured clean sheets on the bed and solid locks upon the door and window). They wasted no time.

To be fair, he'd done nothing to disguise himself, and his last letter had promised he'd come to Antiva. He didn't know if they would attack, since both contracts on his life – Arl Howe's and Bann Esmerelle's – had expired. Still, if they wished to draw Zevran out of hiding then Surana was the perfect bait. Even if they weren't hostile, they'd want to know what he was planning, wouldn't they?

So it was no shock, as he followed a quiet, narrow street leading to a higher part of the town, when a trio of figures appeared to block his path. They wore quality leather armour – no insignia or livery – carried shortbows and blades, and he didn't take them for common thugs. The central figure, an elven woman, stepped boldly towards him. This was her territory, not his.

“Greetings, Warden-Commander. You are a long way from home.” Rather than Antivan, she spoke his own language, in an accent even heavier than Zevran's (which stirred a twinge of nostalgia, despite himself). Compared to the other woman in the tavern, she was rail-thin, and looked as if she'd sooner break glass than polish it.

“And you know why that is, don't you?”

“Your absent lover. We're also interested in finding him, ourselves.”

“Indeed. But I doubt you'd be half so kind with him.”

The woman gave a faint smile, folding her arms. He doubted that posture made her less dangerous – it simply meant that if she chose to attack, she'd be reaching for a different knife. “That depends. Speaking frankly, we tire of him. He causes more trouble than we anticipated, and if someone took him far away, it would not be a bad thing.”

That wasn't what Surana expected to hear. Warily, he entertained the possibility of it being true. “The Crows wouldn't pursue, if he left with me now?”

“Not unless someone took out an _extremely_ expensive contract.”

“...Very well. I'll pass the message on, when I find him. Sounds like the best thing for everyone.” It was, after all, what the two of them had wanted from the start. If not for the House of Crows at Zevran's heels, sending threats and stirring trouble, then he'd never have left Ferelden. Not without Surana's company, at least. They could have begun enjoying their future, rather than being snared by the crueller threads of his past.

“A wise choice. Would you object to company on your search? You are unfamiliar with this land, so an escort would speed the journey...”

How optimistic this woman was, all of a sudden. They'd managed to speak for two minutes without killing each other, and now she thought he might lead her straight to Zevran?

“Sorry, I'll decline. If you're not happy with that, you're welcome to challenge me, but that hasn't worked so well in the past.” It wasn't a bluff. It would take more than three Crows to overpower him, when they didn't even have the element of surprise (though there might be more hidden around here, spying from balconies).

“...Point taken. Have it your way, Warden-Commander.” The woman bowed, graceful and unhurried, yet only lowering her eyes from him for the barest instant. “With luck, we'll have no need to confront each other again.”

With that, she and her silent fellows retreated.

Surana watched them leave, and raised a hand to his earring, gold smooth and warm to the touch; a reassuring habit he'd developed of late. That had gone as well as he could have hoped, really. Had they been waiting in Rialto to meet him? Clearly they didn't know where Zevran was, any more than the woman in the Thief and Lyre had. That, too, reassured him. _He_ had another method of tracking Zevran down, a last gift he'd requested before they parted, something nobody else could use.

Phylacteries were normally made for mages, but not necessarily. At least, not with the method Surana had pieced together, through research, sly questioning of Senior Enchanters, and the dim memories of filling his own phylactery when the templars first brought him in (unlike many in the Circle, he felt no bitterness about that). Zevran's phylactery wasn't as potent as a true one, though. Normally, the blood illuminated for as long as the subject lived, and darkened at their death. His sat permanently dark, unless he was within a fair distance, and Surana actively channelled mana into it, compensating for Zevran's own lack of magic. From across an ocean, it had been impossible to tell if he was alive or not.

Last night, however, Surana had tried again. In moments, his worst fears were soothed by a wash of crimson light, hands carefully cupped around the glass vial, treasuring the sense of connection. Somewhere in Antiva, Zevran _did_ live. A few days of travel and Surana would begin to pinpoint the direction, know whether to head north or south, then check maps to see which towns filled that region. The Crows would probably track his movements, but he'd do his best to lose them. It would be worth the effort, all of it.

Even if he didn't get the answer he hoped for, at least he'd know.


	2. Chapter 2

Codex: The Bridges of Seleny

Seleny's reputation for fine architecture began in the Towers age, due to a rivalry between three families: the Cardonas, the Medels and the Aguilars. As the city straddles a river, bridges to span it were vital, not to mention the many canals. However, these families took bridge-building far beyond what was necessary. They pitted masons against each other to create marvels, grand bridges which housed markets, open-air theatres and ornamental gardens.

Greatest of all was when the Cardonas had a mansion built over the river, complete with stables, a private chapel, and a ballroom floored in thick glass so that guests could see the water rushing beneath them. Sadly, yet perhaps unsurprisingly, during a fierce storm in 3:91 Towers the bridge collapsed, and the entire family drowned. Moreover, rubble blocked the river, causing flooding and destruction throughout Seleny. A law was passed forbidding the construction of any more bridges, stating they had quite enough already.

Early in the Fourth Blight, Seleny suffered again, falling to the darkspawn hordes (as did the Medels, who fought to the last). Yet after the Archdemon's defeat it was resettled, and reconstruction began in earnest. I daresay that today, the city is as lovely as it ever was. The most recent bridge was built in 9:2 Dragon by the Aguilar family, of white granite and black marble, and all along it are statues honouring heroes of the Blight and the town itself – including their old rivals.

\- _From_ In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, _by Brother Genitivi_

 

* * *

 

When Zevran first heard rumours that the Hero of Ferelden was in Antiva, he treated them with a mix of hope and cynicism. This far away, he doubted if people even knew what the man looked like, beyond general descriptions such as _elven mage,_ _always wears Grey Warden colours,_ _devastatingly attractive_ _and creative in the bedroom_. Well, perhaps most people didn't say the last part, but Zevran certainly would, if he wasn't in hiding and thus unable to boast. Otherwise, the boasting would be frequent and loud (just like the lovemaking would be, if they were actually together).

Since fleeing Rialto, he'd made a brief, eventful return to Antiva City, then a swift relocation to the town of Seleny (or as swift as his injuries permitted). This was a good place to gain breathing space, shape plans. Plans still weren't his strong suit, but there was nobody else to rely on. He wasn't the only soul in Antiva with a grudge against their ubiquitous assassin guild, but you couldn't trust everyone who claimed to want a part in your mischief.

One rumour followed another, and his cynicism lessened. The reasons for Evarin's presence ranged from 'recruiting new Wardens' to 'hunting three-headed darkspawn in the Tellari swamps', if you listened to every gossiping tongue – but the true reason could only be Zevran, couldn't it? Perhaps the letter he'd sent last month hadn't arrived. Perhaps Evarin had become worried, or was simply bored with his official duties and sought a diversion. Whatever the reason, if he was here, he would have the warmest of welcomes. And he should be able to find Zevran easily enough, with the aid of that phylactery.

A few days before Zevran left Ferelden, his love had put forward the idea. A few drops of blood, a particular spell, and then it would always point the way towards him, shining brighter the closer he drew. Evarin suggested it hesitantly, emphasising that if Zevran didn't like the idea, it was fine. But really, what was there to dislike? If you were a fugitive mage, playing cat-and-mouse with the templars, then of course you would resent phylacteries. If you'd freely given your heart to someone, however, then what was a little blood on top of that? It was only a bad thing if it fell into the wrong hands.

He'd set a blade to his skin, half-filled the vial of fine glass, and the wound was sealed with a kiss and the otherworldly glow of spirit healing. Hardly the strangest thing he'd ever done.

His only regret was that he wouldn't be able to fulfil all the promises in his letters. _Come here,_ he'd written, _and_ _let me whisk you to the grandest hotel in Antiva City. We will drink rare wine and undress each other by firelight, and then the cries of pleasure I draw from you will be heard all the way back to Ferelden._

No grand hotels or rare wines for them, not under the current circumstances. Fortunately, there was one thing on that list he could still aim for. As he always could.

 

* * *

 

Codex: Don't Blame the Tools

The dire reputation of blood mages is almost universal, and for good reason. However, while the practice is considered wholly forbidden, are there not some honourable, Chantry-approved uses for magic involving blood?

Phylacteries, for example. Samples of Circle mage blood, collected under supervision of the templars themselves, and used to track down runaways. Then we have the ancient Grey Warden ritual which supposedly involves darkspawn blood, and makes them fit to save us from Blights. If a demon is too powerful to be destroyed, it can instead be contained behind barriers of blood magic, to save others from its vile influence. A skilled mage, it is rumoured, can even attune a barrier to his own bloodline, so that it cannot be broken by anyone save his kin (in which case, let us hope he chooses a life of celibacy).

Surely these are types of blood magic, yet they cause no harm. Perhaps we should accept that, as with any other discipline or tool, the most important thing is the moral code of the wielder.

\- _From_ Ethics in Enchantment _, by Senior Enchanter Beckett of the Hossberg Circle_

 

* * *

 

Fine, cool rain pattered against diamond-shaped panes in the window of a rented room. Zevran sat at a table, mixing boiled deathroot with berries which had a sweet, appetising scent, and caused violent seizures in the smallest doses. Consequently, he wore gloves (not the precious Dalish ones, although he wasn't a man who believed in hoarding gifts forever, rather than using them for their intended purposes).

The afternoon was calm, no customers in the tailor's shop below. All the better to hear a loud, distinctive creak, of someone ascending the outdoor staircase to this room. Stairs he'd tampered with, to make them noisier for early warnings.

In silence he removed the gloves, rose and picked up his blades, which had lain ready to coat in the finished poison. They'd have to be good enough without. He heard footsteps outside the door – locked and bolted – followed by a knock. Assassins didn't make a habit of knocking, but could use that very fact to catch somebody off-guard, if they were lucky. He stood silently, poised for the next development.

“Hello? I'm here about some unanswered letters.” The language was Ferelden, the voice quietly dignified, with an almost-hidden note of humour – and Zevran would know it anywhere. He cast his weapons aside, threw the bolts back, flung the door open wide.

A cloaked and hooded figure stood there, beads of rainwater glistening on dull fabric. The hood lowered, and Zevran's heart soared.

They clung to each other, hands tight as if they covered deadly wounds – and no, that wasn't a romantic metaphor, but it was raw and fierce, to match his joy. _You are here_ , Zevran whispered, absorbing the truth of it, and kissed him; an act with months of desire behind it, rising from stifled embers to a sudden blaze of heat. He remembered a time when this love had frightened him, barriers collapsing and old scars fraying at the seams. No fears now, only gladness beyond measure.

“Not the finest hotel in Antiva City, I'm afraid, but-”

“I don't care,” Evarin interrupted, touching his fingers to Zevran's lips. His eyes were bright, and there was a familiar gleam of gold beneath one ear. Softer, yet with intense, intimate feeling, he repeated, “I don't care about that.”

Zevran kissed his fingertips, making the gesture unhurried and sultry, then took hold of his hand, kissing the back of it. Smooth, rain-cooled skin, a few shades lighter than his own, the contrast lovely.

They moved together, stepping back into the room without breaking contact, as if it were part of a dance. A click of metal as the door was bolted again. A thud as Evarin dropped the travel pack he'd carried onto bare floorboards, followed by his cloak. The unfinished poisons, and anything else in the world which required attention, would have to wait. Zevran knew every note to this dance, a hundred times over, yet that did nothing to lessen the thrill, not with this man.

Neither of them was wearing armour, favouring everyday clothing to blend into crowds, free from complicated buckles, solid leather or metal. Only fabric between their bodies, easily gotten rid of. His shirt quickly joined the cloak on the floor. Another step towards the bed, and then a delightful moment of assertiveness as Evarin pushed him back onto it. Or it would have been delightful, if Zevran hadn't knocked his injured leg against the bedframe, wincing.

Evarin's expression went blank with alarm (the majority of negative emotions showed as blankness on him, only positive ones shining through the mask). “Ah! Are-”

“It's nothing, _amor,”_ Zevran replied hurriedly, not wanting to break the mood. “Nothing but scratches from bothersome Crows. You should see how _they_ fared – or perhaps not, since it was not a pretty sight.” Really, he'd been lucky, since the enemy's blade would have severed a tendon, if it went any further. Blood vessels could be cauterised, flesh could mend, tendons not so much. Plus he'd been against five Crows, one of them a Master. So overall lucky, although he'd limped all the way to Seleny. “Also, that encounter played a significant part in your sad lack of letters from me, these past few months.”

“It was very sad, yes.” A wry smile, an effortless glow of magic, and the pain melted away as if it had never existed. Really, there was no equal to a talented Spirit Healer. “Is that better?” Evarin climbed onto the bed himself, straddling Zevran's hips, a teasing pressure that Zevran arched up slightly to meet.

“Alas, while the physical wounds may be gone, who knows how long the memories of battle will haunt me.” He gave a theatrical sigh – he'd only complain like that in jest, and they both knew it – while his hands slid up Evarin's thighs, until they reached high enough to unlace his trousers. Zevran had thought he knew exactly how much he missed this, but no, the reality of being able to touch one another again was dazzling, almost enough to make the long, patient absence worthwhile. Almost.

“Oh, how ter-” A warm, shuddering breath in response to Zevran's wandering hands. “How terrible for you,” Evarin murmured, not sounding as if anything in the world was terrible. He leaned down to kiss Zevran's neck, open-mouthed, with a deliberate press of teeth where they were most appreciated (he'd bite harder, later on; a little pain to make the pleasure richer). Another kiss, followed by a whisper with that same soft, heart-ensnaring intensity as before. “I missed you _so much_.”

That, if anything, was a cue to stop being patient. Zevran rolled them over – instantly rewarded by an eager gasp from Evarin – and pinned the other man beneath him. And kept him there for a considerable amount of time.

 

* * *

 

Codex: Discarded Draft of an Autobiography

As if the Landsmeet were not enough to keep us occupied, it was at this time the House of Crows reared their heads again. In the alleys of Denerim, a group apprehended us, come to follow up on Zevran's contract (several months after his spectacularly unsuccessful ambush). I was afraid, not at the prospect of battle, but by the idea he might forsake me and be drawn back to his old allies.

No such thing came to pass. We slew the Crows together, and with their blood cooling upon the ground, embraced. Our feelings for each other had grown far deeper than anticipated. In different ways, both of us were raised to reject the idea of love: assassins must be heartless, mages must abstain lest they find cause to rebel, as Jowan did (and I betrayed his trust, because I thought love so foolish a thing). Yet now, Zevran was a source of joy for me. He brought out a capacity for tenderness and laughter that I never knew I possessed. Even if we might not survive this Blight, I would take what time I could with him, and be grateful.

_(The remainder of the page has been torn away, as if the author had second thoughts about sharing such personal revelations.)_

 

* * *

 

“The Crows asked me to pass on a message, by the way,” Evarin said conversationally, as they faced each other across the pillows. His face was sketched in candlelight and shadows, flames lit with a spark of magic after the sun began to fade (not that elven eyes particularly needed the light, but it created ambience, maintained colour where there'd otherwise be shades of grey). Hair unbound in waves, skin barely covered by disordered bedsheets.

“Oh? What gruesome fate do they threaten me with now?”

“None, actually. If you come back to Ferelden with me, they claim that will be the end of it all.” Hope in his voice, subtle but undisguised.

“A fine offer, if it's true.” Zevran paused. Eoman, the viper who'd orchestrated Rinna's death, was rotting in the gutter as he deserved, and House Arainai's status would suffer for it. Could he ask for greater vengeance than that? Perhaps, but at some point a line would have to be drawn, unless he planned to kill every single Crow left in Antiva. Not that he didn't feel up to the challenge, and the idea of wiping the guild from existence was empowering. Yet here was the one he loved above all else, wanting to move forward with him rather than dwelling on past bitterness. “I suppose... Those I most wished to kill have been dealt with. I could leave now, and be satisfied.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Evarin touched Zevran's face, thumb stroking an arc between cheek and jawline. Warm silence, for a time. Zevran closed his eyes, then reached up to lace their fingers together. It was irresistible, stealing these moments of contact just because they could, now. The greedy indulgence that followed starvation.

“And they simply walked up to you and said that?”

“More or less. Of course, they still followed me afterwards. Do you want to know how I lost them?”

“Hmm? Since you ask, it must be a good story.” He opened his eyes again.

“I'd travelled to Antiva in my Grey Warden uniform, but that made me easy to identify. I had the idea of finding a decoy, switching clothes, leading the Crows off track. So, I needed a selection of elves. The town I was passing through didn't have much of an alienage, and sneaking into the servant quarters of some rich household seemed more trouble than it was worth. There was a large brothel, though. I went in, and said _I'm feeling narcissistic, do you have anyone who looks like me?_ ”

Zevran chuckled. To most of the world his Warden was a scholar and diplomat, cool and proper without fault, but there was another side beneath that, less predictable and rather more fun to witness. “You're right, this is a good story.”

Evarin gave a gratified smile before continuing. “And as luck had it, they did. Or at least, enough to fool people who didn't know my face well, and only saw him from a distance.”

“Doubtless he was very disappointed you weren't there for the usual reason. But he agreed to your plan?”

“After I assured him that all he needed to do was walk around town for a few hours. And after I named the sum he'd get paid, up front.”

“So while you were sneaking out of some side door, the Crows were chasing around a whore in a borrowed Warden-Commander's uniform? Ah, I am sad to have missed it.”

“I'm sure we can find ourselves in some equally odd situation, before we leave the country.” Evarin stretched lazily, a slight arch of the back, lean muscles tensing and then relaxing. Zevran's gaze traced the tattoo on his hip, a griffon styled after the Warden-Commander's heraldry. He'd only finished it a few weeks before leaving Ferelden – there was meant to be a matching one on the other hip, eventually. Ink the colour of Evarin's hair, lines graceful yet angular to match the lines of his body. A fine piece of work, indeed.

“There's a matter we need to settle, though,” Evarin said, drawing Zevran's attention back towards his face. “Remember that note I sent, promising a favour to someone if they aided you?”

“Oh, that? Quite right. It would be most impolite if we fled without laying that debt to rest. The 'someone' was a merchant family, Faraz, who sheltered me in secret when a few too many Crows were out for my blood. They did not name the favour, only requested that you visit to discuss it.”

“A surprise, then. Let's hope it's something trivial, like showing up to impress people at a dinner party. I've had a few invitations for that, lately.”

“You enjoy dinner parties?” Zevran asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer. Evarin was the type of man who'd sit there with a perfectly-crafted smile, several intelligent things to say, and a sleeping spell ready for anyone who annoyed him, collapsing them face-first into their soup (and his spellcasting was so subtle, nobody could pin blame on him). He'd done it before, during an encounter with some Orlesian diplomats soon after the Blight's end. Another one of his unpredictable quirks.

Zevran, meanwhile, wouldn't be in high demand for anyone's guest list, and had only dealt with dinner parties in the spirit of ruining them. Mixing something deadly into the wine tended to do that.

“Not at all. And I'd be especially wary dining here, with foreign dishes. The first time I bought an orange, I didn't know how to eat it. Bit right in.” Evarin grimaced at the memory.

Zevran pictured him doing that, ignorantly sinking teeth through the thick, bitter peel, and was tempted to laugh again. “No fear, this time you have a guide to steer you away from such mistakes. Not to mention shelter you from tedious conversations, which are likely to be in Antivan.”

“Better not tell them I have been learning, then,” he replied, in Antivan that was imperfect – some of the vowels sounding slightly too clipped, betraying his foreign origins – but clear enough.

“Oh? So if I suggested that...” Zevran leaned closer, whispering into his ear, lips brushing the gold earring.

One of Evarin's hands settled on Zevran's waist, _welcome_ in a third, wordless language, the easiest of all. In a falsely innocent manner, he murmured, “That wasn't in my books, I'm afraid. Why don't you show me what it means?”


	3. Chapter 3

Codex: An Unfortunate Suggestion

Dear Lord Roswight,

Your invitation has been graciously received, however I regret to inform you that Warden-Commander Surana is currently engaged in business overseas. He will therefore be unable to attend your party, and as you so interestingly put it, 'tell how a plucky little elf skewered that dratted flying lizard'. Still, rather than leave an empty seat at your fine table, a fellow Grey Warden would be pleased to attend in his stead. Oghren is a dwarven warrior who accompanied the Warden-Commander on his travels, and could entertain you with many a daring tale of darkspawn-slaying. He has also expressed interest in seeing your famous collection of vintage wines. His presence is certain to make the day a memorable one.

Yours sincerely,

Under-Steward Valerie of Vigil's Keep

_(Note that Vigil's Keep does not, and has never had, an under-steward named Valerie. The person who wrote this letter remains a mystery. Lord Roswight's party did not go as he'd expected.)_

 

* * *

 

With Zevran by his side, Surana felt at leisure to enjoy the journey east, towards Antiva City and the ocean. The terrain was rich with differences to Ferelden's: the species of wildflowers and weeds tangling at a roadside, the architecture of an old farmhouse, the groves of citrus fruits, almonds and olive trees alongside familiar wheat fields and pastures. Sometimes it rained, but there was none of the miserable, icy weather Ferelden would experience at this time of year.

At night they shared a simple tent, like in the 'good old days' of the Blight. Smiling lasciviously, Zevran would add an extra touch of nostalgia by offering a massage, or quoting some line of outrageous poetry (which Surana was increasingly convinced he made up himself, rather than collecting from marks). When they passed through towns, he picked out local foods he thought Surana would like, and almost anything would spark his memory of an entertaining story. One evening, in a square brightened by lanterns and the guitar music of minstrels, he pulled Surana into the gathered crowd and persuaded him to dance, with laughter in between each step. Days passed swift and sweet as dreams.

They stopped at the town of Cantila, home to the brothel where Surana carried out his bait-and-switch plan, so he could retrieve the Grey Warden uniform (pleasantly surprised it hadn't been sold off, or otherwise mishandled). Zevran made the expected comment about remembering his birthplace, and Surana wondered if there were small children behind the scenes here too, waiting to be traded off as slaves. A discomfiting thought.

“So, this is the reason you turned me down last time?” asked the man who'd been employed as his double, casting an appreciative eye over Zevran (a well-practised look, no doubt, but there _was_ plenty to appreciate, in this case). “Well, I can't fault that. Now you're both here, though...” The implied end to that sentence was obvious enough.

“There's an interesting proposition.” Zevran responded with a note of amusement. “I can hardly say you're not my type. But the final decision rests with my dear companion.”

Surana held back exasperation. Such an idea didn't scandalise him, nor did it stoke up terrible jealousy, because Zevran could bed someone as easily as breathing and impart just as little meaning to it. All the same, he didn't feel at ease here. In his best diplomatic voice, the one used for placating stubborn nobles and dwarves, he said, “Sorry, but one is enough for me. Thank you again for keeping my uniform safe.”

“A pity, but it was an honour to do that much, at least. Farewell, Hero of Ferelden.”

With that, they made an exit. Surana sighed, turning the bundle of blue and grey clothes over in his hands. He'd have them laundered before wearing again, just in case.

“I...hope that wasn't a disappointment,” he said, with an awkwardness he seldom normally felt. “If so, then I apologise.”

Zevran waved his words away. “What is there to apologise for? If you'd agreed then so would I, but we have plenty of fun between the two of us. Some things are not for everyone.”

True, but it was good to hear that Zevran – with his colourful history of bedroom adventures – saw it that way, rather than lamenting a missed opportunity. Then again, he was more of a gentleman than he painted himself as. To those he didn't like or trust, he'd use lewd suggestions and unwanted flirting to push them away, but to Surana he'd shown nothing but charm, respectful of boundaries, no pressure or presumption. There were many men who did the opposite, building a refined public image to cover unsavoury private habits. Zevran was worth a thousand of them.

“Let's just say that nobody else meets my standards.”

“Quite a compliment, indeed.” Zevran set a hand over his heart, in exaggerated acceptance.

_No,_ _t_ _here aren't words enough to compliment you as highly as you deserve._ That was Surana's first thought, but it didn't seem the place for such starry-eyed declarations, so he left it unspoken. They walked on down the street, pools of slow-burning torchlight guiding them to an inn for the night.

 

* * *

 

Codex: Enjoy Responsibly

As any history book will explain, Antiva City was ravaged during the Fourth Blight, and neither the king nor queen escaped with their lives. Fortunately, that was long in the past! Today it is full of exquisite sights, from the Golden Plaza of statues to the Royal Palace's gardens, all restored and unblemished.

More exquisite still is the Black Lotus café, where imported coffee and hot chocolate from Par Vollen are served by girls wearing nothing but cleverly-arranged necklaces and golden belts. At the Temple of Indulgence, one may order a gourmet meal laid out on the 'living plate' of a beautiful man or woman. While gambling is technically restricted by law, loopholes allow huge sums of money to change hands in lavish gaming dens. Whether you prefer music, theatre or art, so long as you have coin to spend you will never be bored.

A word of caution for human readers, though – while experiencing the city's pleasures, be liberal in all aspects of your attitude. During my first visit, I heard of a fellow Orlesian, a minor noble, who was out drinking in a wealthy area. He spied an elven woman wrapped in silk and jewels, and in indignation at her finery, tried to lay his hands forcefully upon her. The woman was a Master of the House of Crows, and she cut out his eyes before sauntering away to continue her evening's leisure.

\- _From_ A Thrillseeker's Guide to Antiva and Rivain _,_ _by Thomas of Val_ _Foret_

 

* * *

 

Villa Faraz sat on the outskirts of the city, encircled by walls crowned with elegant yet functional spikes. Guards escorted them down an avenue, flanked by palm trees with bark like reptilian scales. They were passed over to livery-clad servants at the villa's doors, led through to an upstairs terrace, and left to wait for the masters of the house. Huge pots of white flowers perfumed the air, mixing with the smell of coffee brought by the servants. Surana refused to touch it, having already discovered he hated that particular drink.

He expected to meet a richly-dressed old merchant, and was right in all aspects besides age. The couple that drifted out to join them on the terrace were youthful, although the man was trying to make himself look older with a pointed beard. The woman's hair was pinned up with small silver combs covered in pearls.

“The Hero of Ferelden! Welcome to our humble estate. And Zevran, I see you are keeping well, still eluding your enemies.” The man gave a spirited bow, more a series of flourishes than an obeisance. The woman waited quietly, one step behind and to the side of him. “Danilo Faraz, at your service. And my dear sister, Ramona. I am pleased to find that you are men of your word.”

Surana nodded. “I'm grateful you chose to offer aid when it was needed. We're here to discuss the boon I promised in return. If you've decided what form it should take?”

“Straight to the point! I've given it some thought, yes. Warden-Commander – that's the right title, yes? Warden-Commander, have you ever heard of the qunari?”

“A little. They live further north, in Par Vollen. Formidable warriors. Strict religious codes.”

“All true, I'm sure. Did you also know they have horns with miraculous properties?”

“I... Miraculous, really?” Zevran interjected, in a doubtful tone.

“Absolutely! Powdered qunari horn is the latest fashionable cure-all. Very lucrative market. Unfortunately, as you say, they are a warrior race, and not keen on parting with them...”

Surana's estimation of this Faraz man fell significantly. To his knowledge, there was nothing at all special about qunari horns, just like there was nothing lucky about rabbits' feet, and carrying amulets with holy symbols wouldn't guarantee the Maker's favour. _Truly_ useful substances, like elfroot, featured in all kinds of herbal and alchemical recipes. Qunari horns were about as valuable as dwarven toenail clippings (and just as grisly a thing to consume, if one stopped and thought about it – though perhaps someone who'd drunk darkspawn blood couldn't judge).

He exchanged a look with Zevran, who shrugged. “Are you saying you'd like us to acquire some?” It was certainly within their abilities, but that didn't make it any less strange.

“Not long ago, several hundred qunari were shipwrecked near Kirkwall. Or you could head to Par Vollen itself, if that would be convenient. Amongst all those, I'm sure you'd be able to find some unsavoury fellows, if harvesting from innocents offends your sensibilities.” From someone else, that could have sounded condescending, but this man appeared sincere. An eccentric, definitely. Perhaps an eccentric was what it took, to dare aid an ex-Crow in the heart of their territory.

“Very well, that sounds fine. We'll get started at once.” Because it was a strange and misguided request, but he'd given his word. A trip to the Free Marches, a few battles with 'unsavoury fellows', and that should be the end of it.

“No need for such haste, my good man. You'll be guests for the evening, surely? The best Antivan cuisine for you to sample, and you can tell the story of how you slew the Archdemon, yes?” Danilo Faraz steepled his fingers, his expression eager. “I have souvenirs, genuine broken swords from the battle at Denerim! Maybe they will jog your memory?”

Surana forced a smile. He wasn't keen to retell that story yet again, much less see 'souvenirs' harvested from the carnage – was there a market for such things, truly? But instead, for the sake of gratitude, he said, “In that case, we'd be delighted.”

 

* * *

 

Codex: The Rose of Medina

Adelita: A thousand woes are heaped upon me, hark  
A cruel gale blows, and each morn is so dark  
My freedom won, but at what crippling cost  
My bright Antiva lies beyond me, lost  
This foreign land a mocking sanctuary

Leonico: Fool! Had we stayed, you'd now be slain and buried  
The Duke's vengeance will not cool, nor idly sleep

Adelita: I know that well, yet fairly my heart weeps  
Robbed of sun afire, over towers bright  
No well-loved glories comforting my sight  
No rush of scarlet wine upon my tongue  
Even birds here are dull, songs poorly sung

_\- From_ The Rose of Medina _, Act Two, Scene Two. The character Adelita spends a further three pages reminiscing about her homeland, before Leonico silences her with a dagger. He calls it a mercy, as clearly she could not eke out a happy life anywhere but Antiva._

 

* * *

 

There was a book in his hands, but Surana skimmed the pages idly, not in the mood for deep concentration. They'd stopped for a midday rest, far enough from the roadside that other travellers would be no bother. A grove of young trees offered shelter, and he sat beneath one, cloak cushioning his back against the silver-dappled bark. While he'd never thought of himself as an outdoor person – his journeys were by necessity rather than choice – in a climate like this, he might change his mind.

A short distance away, Zevran amused himself with a bunch of grapes, throwing them into the air one at a time, trying to catch them in his mouth. More often than not, he succeeded. Noticing Surana's gaze upon him, he flashed a grin, plucked another grape from the bunch, and held it in an aiming pose.

Surana sighed, but humoured him and tried to catch it. And failed, of course, the grape bouncing off his cheek. Silly game. On the next throw, he opened a fine seam into the Fade, drawing just enough magic to freeze the grape in mid-air as it flew at him. Leaning forward, he closed his teeth upon it with self-satisfaction, as Zevran laughed. It was a harder spell than it appeared, to keep an object in suspension without flinging it away or crushing it.

“Such trickery! No wonder the Chantry is wary of mages.”

“Yes, that's it exactly. They don't like how they can't throw fruit at our faces,” Surana replied, as Zevran moved to sit beside him. An arm around his waist, chin resting upon his shoulder, playful gestures of affection that made his heart flutter, as if there wasn't a year's history between them already.

“What's this you're reading? A debauched Nevarran romance we can take inspiration from?”

“It's about the Battle of Ayesleigh in 5:24 Exalted. Not as much detail as I'd have liked.”

“Ah, you mean about your heroic predecessor, Garahel.” Zevran had heard this before. Surana's adolescence was spent daydreaming about the only elven hero most non-elves acknowledged, the dashing warrior belonging to an order called the 'Grey Wardens'. One of his favourite books in the Circle's library had a full-page illustration of Garahel slaying an Archdemon, with artistic swirls of tainted violet blood and bronze griffon's feathers. He'd never expected that to mean something serious in his life.

“I'd like to visit Weisshaupt Fortress someday, and see his tomb.”

“In the Anderfels, correct? Not the loveliest of locations, from what I've heard, but if you wish it then I will be by your side, of course.”

“Feel free to suggest some travel destinations too. I have to check in at Vigil's Keep every so often, but...I do like this. Being adventurers again.”

“You prefer it to being an Arl, even?”

“Marry me, and you'll be one too. At least, I think that's how it works.” He said it casually, since they were already engaged, more or less (it was a roundabout, unconventional proposal, but they'd reached an understanding in the end). There was no sense of urgency for an actual wedding. They'd get around to it, when the time was right.

Zevran was silent for a moment, then said, “It may not be wise to venture far into Antiva City again, but there is a particular chapel... One of the prostitutes who helped raise me was very devout, and would drag as many of the children as she could along to sermons. Even after being sold to the Crows, I attended sometimes, out of sentiment I suppose. I doubt it would be considered fine enough for an Arl, but under normal circumstances, neither would we, so perhaps it is fitting?”

“I'd be happy with that.” Surana wasn't a devout man, and in truth, wouldn't mind if they were blessed under the eyes of the Maker, the Dalish pantheon, or some other religion involving dragons or stones. It sounded good though, to have it done in a meaningful place, without the intrusion of excess drama and ceremony. Apparently the time was right now.


	4. Chapter 4

Codex: Misplaced Draft of an Autobiography

I have no memories of a life before the Circle. My talents manifested at a young age, and my parents sought to hand me over to the templars, rather than hiding me. I don't see that as a heartless choice – as an apprentice mage I would have regular meals, a warm place to sleep and an education, things not every elven child enjoys. Besides this, I would be judged on my abilities rather than heritage. Within the Circle, humans and elves are placed on an even footing I have not seen anywhere else, save for the Grey Wardens.

Raised in this environment, hearing of the outside world only through books and biased anecdotes, I was unprepared for the realities I faced after leaving. The first time someone made a disdainful remark about elves to me, I brushed it off as an unusual streak of rudeness in the man. Swiftly, I realised this was not the case. My response was to feel a greater solidarity with my race, and a determination to push back against injustices to us. So it has remained. I will make no apologies for that.

 

* * *

 

The Wounded Coast did nothing to redeem itself from that name. Still, Zevran had been in worse places, with far less enchanting company. When the Waking Sea hurled up blasts of sharp, sand-laden wind or chilling rain, Evarin raised a barrier to keep them at bay, a sphere of calm amid the storms. Sometimes simple, practical spells could be more useful than flinging fireballs around. In their travels through the colder parts of Ferelden, Zevran had come to greatly appreciate the touch of hands infused with magical heat.

On the tenth night after crossing into the Free Marches, they encountered the first outbreak of trouble. In the darkness beyond their tent, a sudden crash and rough curses rang out, as someone snagged one of the tripwires Zevran had set to guard them.

Instantly he was wide awake, slipping away from Evarin's embrace and reaching for his daggers (armour would be nice as well, but he doubted there was time for it). Evarin stirred, then went still and tense, listening. A look of distant concentration fell over his face, and Zevran recognised it as the mental preparation for a spell. An instant later, the tent was torn from around them.

A minute or two after that, they were surrounded by a ring of frozen, shattered corpses, and a pair of dazed survivors who'd been outside the spell's area of effect, cringing on the ground in surrender. Both human, they squinted in the dark (and maybe they'd just realised they were beaten by men without a stitch of clothing on). The main illumination came from the eerie glow of Fade-touched frost, rising in slow clouds from blocks of ruined flesh.

Then, rather than begging for their lives, one bandit turned to the other and hissed, “ _Id_ _iot!_ That's not even the right elf!”

“Yes it is, look! Warrior, white hair, tattoos on his face.” The second man nodded towards Zevran, which was puzzling. This group were nothing to do with the Crows, he'd wager – far too clumsy for that – and he couldn't think of anyone else he'd offended lately. Well, not so much that they'd send mercenaries after him. Probably.

“His hair's not white!”

“White, yellow, close enough. Could have dyed it!”

“Excuse me,” Zevran said, “but if I may interrupt, it sounds like you're seeking a particular man, rather than charging around attacking hapless travellers at random.”

“Y-yes, absolutely! We were sent to track down an escaped slave from Tevinter, but you know, on second thoughts, you don't sound like you're from Tevinter so maybe this was all just a mistake. Huge mistake! We're very sorry, please-”

“Hm? An escaped what, now?”

“Sla...” The man halted halfway through the word, as realisation struck him that it was a bad thing to say. A bad practice to be in support of, when pleading for the mercy of elves. “Look, nobody's saying _you_ -”

Evarin cut him off with a dismissive wave. “I think that's all we needed to hear.”

Together, they stepped forward. A blast of deadly ice enveloped one man, while a blade slid across the other's throat, neatly opening arteries and windpipe, ignoring his feeble, flailing attempt to defend from it. Zevran stepped back, not wanting to let blood pool around his bare feet (bad enough to be walking on the Wounded Coast's gritty sand, which got everywhere given half a chance).

“Well, that was quite invigorating. I fear, however, that we may now need a new campsite. And a new tent.”

“Also, our clothes.”

“Tsk, spoilsport.” But then again, it was rather chilly out here with all that ice flying around (he did wish, sometimes, that Evarin could pick another element to build affinity with). As for the man those mercenaries had actually been hunting, well, good luck to him, whoever he was. No need to think further upon it.

 

* * *

 

Codex: Ardour of the Grey

Andoral's Blight-song ever singing  
Crazed and thirsting for more death  
In every Warden's head a-ringing  
Unaware fair dawn was bringing  
Stillness to foul hearts and breath

Yet before dawn blessed storm-rent skies  
Before the last brave stars had fled  
Within the heroes' camp, soft sighs  
And tender lights in wearied eyes  
As Amadis took to Garahel's bed

A last delight before glorious end  
Last sweetness before agony  
All the small pains of his soul to mend  
And in her heart those hours would blend  
Stretching into private eternity

_\- From a poem written in 5:25 Exalted, celebrating the Fourth Blight's end by imagining a last night of passion between Garahel and his lover, Amadis Vael. After hearing it, Queen Mariwen is said to have commissioned a similar work about her own night with Garahel, but this gained a cooler reception. For all her beauty, it was no secret that she had to bribe him by promising the Grey Wardens her armies, which makes it hard to romanticise._

 

* * *

 

In the end, collecting the qunari horns was easy. A few miles from Kirkwall, they tried to take shelter in a cave and found it already occupied by an aggressive gang who called themselves Tal-Vasshoth. The fight was unavoidable, and so, just as Danilo Faraz had said, they got what they wanted without the deaths of any 'innocents'.

One of the qunari was a mage, his horns already sawn off to stumps, a heavy brass mask covering a mutilated face. Lips sewn together, flesh misshapen where it had pulled against the stitches while trying to eat or speak (and having the slackness of a corpse made it no prettier a sight). Zevran caught Evarin staring at it, perhaps imagining a similar fate for himself. The qunari were not kind to their mages, in ways that made templars seem mild as lambs.

Their return to Antiva was welcome, and they reached Villa Faraz without incident. Danilo cheerfully accepted the horns, considered the debt repaid, and again insisted they stay as guests for an evening or two. While the host's company was tiring – his choice to hide Zevran from the Crows, while helpful, was likely because he didn't have the wits to be afraid – the chambers they were given made up for it. Fine furnishings, silk bedsheets, a bathtub big enough for two. Easy to appreciate after weeks in a tent.

Zevran would miss his homeland, without question, but he wouldn't challenge the Crows' truce. With Evarin by his side, he could make a home anywhere else in the world. Hopefully nowhere too cold and dreary, though.

Evarin sat on the bed, freeing his hair from the feather-shaped pins which normally held it back (he used to wear genuine bird feathers, when they first met, but those didn't fare so well through battles and storms). “Thank you for bearing the weight of conversation today. I liked the story of how we found a lost army of golems in the Deep Roads. And...had them punch through the darkspawn while we rode on their shoulders, was it? Did you invent that on the spot?”

“Come now, you don't remember that day?” He'd been rather proud of the story, himself. Telling tales to amuse acquaintances was one thing, but glancing across the table to see Evarin nodding along, fighting to keep a straight face, was the true reward. Such a serious man, at times, but not with Zevran.

He walked to the balcony windows, left open to allow a breath of the night's mild air, the scent of white flowers. In the distance lay Antiva City itself, with torches, lanterns, and other spots of brightness marking civilisation. Greatest city in the world, he'd once have boasted.

“Tomorrow we'll go to your chantry?” Evarin asked.

“Indeed. Provided it's still there. Who knows what might have happened, since I last visited.”

“Well, either way, I was promised a husband and won't stop until I have one.”

“Ah, such a determined man! The Archdemon never stood a chance against you.”

He remembered sitting in that chapel on stiflingly hot days, fidgeting and jostling on scratched wooden benches, only pretending to listen to the Chant. Going out afterwards, picking a pocket and using the _andris_ to buy sweets, apricots or bite-sized almond cakes. Sometimes, if he felt generous, he shared them with the other whorehouse children, and told exaggerated stories of how he'd got them (though none involving golems).

He remembered the bewildering, stomach-twisting fear of being led to the slave auction, standing in line, trying to guess what each buyer wanted and avoid notice from those he dreaded most. Knowing some of the other children, who he sat through sermons and shared sweets with, had been sold to those people.

He remembered torture, and the only thing that let him sleep through the pain afterwards was shattering exhaustion. One boy came back from it in silence, lay down in his cot and simply died, body and spirit giving up. Crows disposed of dead _comprandi_ without ceremony, in the same cheap, stained sacks the leather-makers used, to be rid of refuse from their work.

He remembered lounging between Taliesen and Rinna in the bed of an extravagant hotel suite, celebration of a mission well done, not caring that by the week's end they'd be poor again. Passing a bottle of brandy between them, and Rinna, already drunk, talking nonsense about what she'd do if she were the Queen of Antiva. He remembered spitting on her tear-streaked face as she died, because that felt safer, more natural than trusting her.

None of those memories had vanished. They remained dark places to tread, sources of pain and anger if he chose to dwell too long. Only if he chose, though. In the worst times they'd formed a constant, inescapable pressure, wearing him down, making him reckless for the sake of distraction, reckless because why take care of something that lacked value?

Now, he was careful with himself, and would continue to be.

Evarin's arms slipped around his waist, embracing him from behind as if responding to his thoughts. “Will you miss it so greatly?”

Zevran sighed. “Antiva City is beautiful, and familiar, but those are not reasons to remain with something which pains you. I would like to see this Vigil's Keep of yours.”

He turned, cradling Evarin's face between his hands, and let a long, tender gaze pass between them, before kissing him.

 

* * *

 

Codex: The Art of Pain

There is a particular balance one must strike, with recruits. Hurt them a considerable amount, so that they no longer flinch from smaller things, so they understand their body's limits and will not accept defeat one moment too soon. Let them know things could be worse, if they ever betray their masters. Make them feel vulnerable to us, but nigh invincible to everyone else.

Hurt them, but do not cripple them. Leave them with nimble fingers, strong limbs and pretty, unscarred faces. Leave the only true scars within their minds.

At some point, all assassins are required to assist in the torture rooms. This is useful, as all are united in feeling pain, yet all are guilty of having inflicted it. You may have friends, but in the end, you still bow to the guildmasters above everything else. You will make your dearest friend scream in agony, if you are ordered to. Otherwise, you will scream in unison with them.

\- _Introduction to a torturer's handbook, by an anonymous Crow. The edges of each page are spattered with blood in a_ _n_ _artistic manner._

 

* * *

 

Zevran awoke to a dull, persistent ache in his head, with the numbing pressure of rope at wrists and ankles. Alarmed, he strained to move and could not. He was sitting in a chair, tied firmly into place. The world was dark, obscured by thick cloth covering his head. Understanding hit him, swift and sharp as an arrow to the eye, and he tried to swallow down fear. No sounds, so either he'd been left somewhere alone, or was being watched in silence.

They hadn't slain him immediately, so he supposed that was a good sign. Better than the alternative, certainly.

The last thing he recalled was preparing to leave Villa Faraz. He and Evarin had gathered their belongings, and were invited to breakfast on that pleasant terrace with the white flowers. The masters of the house weren't there, only servants to lay out food and drink. After that, he knew no more. Drugged, then? The Crows had found some new grievance, discovered where he would be, and turned someone there against him. Of course their truce had been too good to last. Of course it had.

And Evarin? Surely they hadn't been so bold as to abduct the famous Hero of Ferelden. Perhaps he would be safe... Perhaps. A new wave of fear twisted in Zevran's stomach, like the live octopi some nobles ate at parties to show their bravado. The Crows killed kings, so were heroes any safer?

“Zevran, I've begun to worry.” A woman's voice, with an oddly flat tone, as if she wasn't really addressing him. He turned his head blindly towards the sound. “Your last letter to me was months ago, and I know there are harmless reasons why this could be so, but...there are also darker reasons, and these plague my thoughts.”

Ah. Evarin had mentioned sending letters which never reached him. Unsure how to respond, he stayed quiet and listened.

“If my fears are founded, and this falls into someone else's hands, heed me: if Zevran Arainai is in your custody, keep him safe and you will have any ransom you wish. Harm him, and I swear your death will be a thing of nightmares. The hand that pens this is the hand that slew an Archdemon. Do you think yourself more formidable than an Archdemon?” Her manner was less mocking than he would have expected. She took the threat seriously, then. As she ought to.

“Well, do you?” he asked, eventually.

“If it were up to me, we'd have slit both your throats as soon as we found you. The Master, however, insisted your death be slow and dramatic, to set a proper example. Once he arrives, we'll begin,” she said, with what sounded awfully like impatience. Well, Zevran might feel the same, in her place. Keeping captives around wasn't part of the usual job description, for an assassin. “He also preferred the Grey Warden to live, if possible.”

“That was unwise of him. And unfortunate for you.”

A sigh, and the crinkle of parchment being discarded. “You had a chance, Zevran. Leave Antiva, never return. That's all you needed to do.”

Silently, he cursed the Faraz family. “And I intended to. B ut the Warden had an agreement with the master of the house you took us from.  Had you given us time to honour that, we'd be on a ship to Ferelden now.”  Not completely true, but close enough. Before the ship, there should have been the  c ha pel . Zevran had planned to cast off the name Arainai,  a mark of possession from the Crows, and ask if he could share the name Surana instead.  He'd never gotten the chance to mention it.

“Did you need to accompany him, to honour his agreement?”

“...No, I did not.” It seemed such a petty thing to take issue with. He'd caused no mischief, raised no blade against anyone in the Crows. Perhaps they were more paranoid than he'd realised. Perhaps they never meant to keep the deal, would always have found some excuse to cancel it.

“See where this has brought you, then.”

The cloth was yanked from his head, granting him sight of a shabby, unfurnished cellar, light slinking through cracks in boarded windows. Across from him, around ten feet away, was another chair, a captive in Grey Warden uniform, head still covered by another cloth. Zevran's heart lurched as his captor – an elven woman he didn't recognise, but that meant nothing, the Crows numbered in their hundreds – walked over to Evarin. She forced his head back, pressed a knife to his unguarded throat.

It was unbearable, but she'd just said that she wasn't allowed to kill him. This was a mind game, nothing more. Another form of torment. Zevran forced himself not to react, knowing that any weakness he showed would be preyed upon.

The knife slashed deep, a vivid spill of blood over the silver griffon insignia. Zevran couldn't believe his eyes, paralysed by shock, breath frozen in his lungs. He waited for the life-saving glow of healing magic, or the jolt of waking from a nightmare, and neither came. Seconds ticked by, blood poured free, and neither came.


	5. Chapter 5

Codex Entry: Chant of War

He did not falter at the legions massed before him  
His hearts' faith was true  
And his bow's aim certain  
Pain and servitude were things of the past  
For even if he fell upon the battlefield  
It would be the noblest death he could hope for  
Yet he did not fall, and the blood of his enemies  
Poured like rain, like arrows

_\- Shartan 12:2, Dissonant Verse_

 

* * *

 

Consciousness slid back, nausea swelling, then settling to mere disorientation. Surana didn't know how he got here - or even where 'here' was. Somewhere dark and closed-in, making him imagine he was back in Ferelden, in the small, element-battered tent that had been his home for the better part of a year, during the Blight. But no, the Archdemon was dead now. After that he was on a ship, and then... Then he'd been with Zevran.

This wasn't right. Another wave of nausea, rolling and cresting. He drew a deep breath, and it pulled fabric in towards his mouth. Something over his face? He bowed forward, and whatever it was slid off. A bag? A room was revealed, the windowless gloom of a forgotten storage chamber. He was sitting on a roll of old carpet, while in one corner stood several crates and a broken bookcase. A single door, closed and no doubt locked.

He was alone, and the implications behind that were painfully obvious. He closed his eyes, tried to channel fear and frustration into something useful. Demonic whispers hissed from the Fade, sweetly baited promises of enough power to make everything right, if only he would beckon them through.

They weren't needed. Surana's hands were tied, fabric looped excessively around each finger – there was a belief that binding a mage's hands prevented them from casting spells, since they used gestures to focus power, most of the time. How, though, did that explain all the children who came into magic violently, setting buildings or bystanders on fire? Those children were never taught any special gestures. All they needed was their innate tie to the Fade, and the will to make something happen. With nothing else to divert his focus, that was all Surana needed now.

A wall of invisible force struck the door, wood splintering, hinges warping. It fell back with an ear-shattering bang.

Rather than run straight out, he stood and counted to ten, waiting to see if he'd alerted any guards. At six, the first attacker dashed through, only to be frozen solid. Surana threw the weight of his body against them, sending them smashing to the floor in pieces. He stepped out into a corridor and saw another man, scrambling to load a crossbow. In a flash, Surana threw up a shield of missile-deflecting energy, and it shimmered as a bolt struck off, coated with indigo-coloured poison. Magebane? They should have used it on him sooner, if they had it. Too late now.

He cast a paralysis spell before the man could do more, and strode towards him. A human, in the light leather armour of a rogue, no special features. Easy to guess where he hailed from, though.

“Listen, Crow,” Surana said. “The instant this spell wears off, tell me where Zevran is and you live. Do anything else and you die.”

With that, he stepped back to a safer distance. The man's face twitched, paralysis fading faster than normal – Surana might still be able to cast spells, but he felt weakened, and had no staff or other aids. More than two enemies here, and he'd have struggled.

The Crow gasped, stumbling as his legs were put back under his own control. “Very well! I will tell you. Zevran, he is-” The stumble suddenly turned to a lunge, knife whipping out. Surana fell backwards awkwardly, but lashed out with magic as he did so. The man became a statue of ice poised above him, then toppled and crashed down, forcing him to roll aside.

Silence followed. No shouts of alarm, no footsteps of more Crows. He shuffled through the fragments of bloody ice, wetness seeping through the knees of his trousers, until his bound hands found the Crow's knife. It looked clean, no poison streaking the metal, so he pressed it against the binding and freed himself. Drawing a little blood in the process, but not enough to waste his remaining mana on healing it. That done, he climbed to his feet (and took the knife with him).

Were there other rooms along this corridor? A hasty search revealed two more, one full of sacks and one full only of dust. Of course, things were never that easy.

He followed the corridor's turns, up a narrow flight of stairs, into the villa's kitchens. Normally there'd be servants bustling here, but the entire place was quiet, atmosphere crushed by tension, stoves cold and untended. He chose a new door, followed a wider corridor, up a finer set of stairs, towards where he vaguely remembered the bedchambers to be.

The suite they'd stayed in was ransacked. His Warden-Commander uniform gone, his mage's staff, anything that might be of value. Even Zevran's letters to him, the ones he'd kept so carefully and carried across an ocean, were gone. That stung, but he needed something else right now (and out of habit, he reached up to touch the gold earring, to check that was still there). Buried at the bottom of his pack, left alone because nobody aside from mages or templars would recognise its worth: Zevran's phylactery.

Surana cradled the vial, infused the blood with a delicate stream of mana, and felt shaken with relief when it glowed strongly in response. Zevran lived, and not too far away. From the sun's height outside, he guessed that it was midday, perhaps four hours since their breakfast on the terrace – a four-hour headstart for the Crows.

A small, scuffling noise behind him. He spun around to see a maid, gaping in fright, clutching folded laundry to her chest like a shield.

“Where is Danilo Faraz?” he demanded, in Antivan. Mutely, she pointed right, then fled left.

The first door on the right revealed another empty bedroom, the second a drawing room, walls covered in flamboyant oil portraits. The third held Danilo Faraz, hunched despairingly over a divan couch with his head in his hands, as if verging on ripping clumps of hair out. A bodyguard stood at his side. The guard rushed Surana, who struck back with paralysis, then yanked the man's own sword from nerveless fingers and ran him through with it, swift and ruthless. Unnecessary death, but he'd made the choice to fight. Danilo flinched, staring with panic-widened eyes.

“You betrayed us.” Even if his Antivan wasn't perfect, Surana was sure the message would get across. He didn't show anger or grief, locking it tight behind a mask of cold command. “Give me a reason not to kill you.”

“I... Reason?”

“What can you offer, that will help me get him back?”

“I don't know where they took him. Please, I don't know anything – I had to do what they said! The House of Crows, here in my home!”

“The Hero of Ferelden, here in your home! This is your last chance. I've no time to waste on you.”

“I...” Faraz repeated, uselessly. A careless merchant, involving himself in the business of assassins, then unable to cope when his tame amusements bared their teeth. In other circumstances, it could have been forgiven. Surana shook his head, and then a blast of ice tore the man apart.

On his way out, he ran into the other head of Villa Faraz, Ramona. She faced him with a tense, brittle dignity, and though she looked nothing like Queen Anora, Surana was reminded of her nevertheless. She'd never spoken to him directly before, letting her brother take the lead. Did she know that he lay dead in another room?

“Warden-Commander,” she began. Her hands only trembled a little, as she held out a velvet bag. “You came here expecting hospitality, and did not receive it. Our house is shamed, but this may go some way towards aiding you.”

The bag was heavy with _andris_ , stamped with profiles of Antiva's royal family. Yet something else lay on top, casting a blue, shimmering glow across the gold. A bottle of lyrium potion, strictly controlled essence that nobody outside of the Chantry or Circle should possess. Where she'd got it from didn't matter, though. What mattered was the fact that yes, this would aid him (and no poison he knew of could corrupt lyrium, so there was no further trap here). He anticipated casting many more spells, before the day's end.

 

* * *

 

Codex: A Lost Letter

Greetings from Antiva!

I must apologise for the terrible break in our communications of late. You have realised, of course, this was not through choice, but due to troublesome events beyond my control, again. Allow me to set your mind at ease, and assure you that for the time being, I remain safe. I trust the same is true of you. Your town continues to be rebuilt, and your subjects know how fortunate they are to have you as their Arl, yes?

Please address future letters to 'C' at the Burned Bridge inn, in the town of Seleny. Sadly, anything you've sent within the last few months has not reached me, so feel free to repeat any particularly important or scandalous parts. Or...if you still plan to travel here, I would like that. I would like that very much, my love.

Yours always,

Z.

 

* * *

 

Surana stormed through the streets of Antiva City, all its grandeur lost on him. The phylactery was his only guide, the blood in that vial as precious as every drop in his own veins. What sort of place would the Crows take a captive? Here, at the heart of their power, they could choose anywhere, from a shack in the slums to one of the largest mansions. The city sprawled over miles.

Zevran wouldn't have been there in Villa Faraz if it weren't for him. Might still be safe in Seleny, and the Crows none the wiser. If Surana had remained patient, kept his feet grounded on Ferelden soil and hadn't let himself be overcome with lovesick worries, then this mess would never have happened. He prided himself on traits like intelligence and restraint, yet when it came to Zevran he was sometimes neither of those things.

The phylactery's light led him towards a shabby district, narrow apartments crammed together, warehouses with the clang of toolwork echoing behind their doors, signs askew and obscured with graffiti. A pungent odour, part chemical and part organic, that Surana realised must be a tannery.

In the end, he barely needed magic to reveal the exact place. The Crows knew he was on the trail, and in front of a tall, ramshackle building with boarded windows, a dozen urchins were gathered, waiting with expectant stares. A mix of humans and elves, thin layers of bruised skin and dirt and threadbare clothes. Surana halted, puzzled by the choice to send these out instead of seasoned assassins. A decoy? A belief that the noble Hero of Ferelden wouldn't harm children? Well, normally that was true, but only because children didn't normally cause much trouble. Their lives weren't more valuable than Zevran's.

“Hero of Ferelden.” One of the older boys spoke, in a perfect Ferelden accent, as if he were a native himself. “The Master has given you the choice to walk away. You aren't someone the House of Crows would seek to kill outside of a contract. The traitor Zevran is ours to deal with. Walk away, and all will be as it should.”

“No, it won't. Stand aside.”

The boy shifted, glancing uncertainly to his fellows. “If you come any closer, we'll run and shout to the Crows in there, and they'll cut the traitor's throat. They're going to do it anyway. You'll just make them do it sooner.”

Silently, Surana calculated the area covered by the children, then drew upon the Fade and smothered them all with sleep, a shining circle of unnatural stillness. He bolted into the building, through a hallway, into a room with a long, stained table and wooden stools. Multiple doors leading off, and though he glanced at the phylactery, it couldn't guide him this precisely. Unsure how long the sleeping spell would last, he tried the first door, running up a flight of stairs to find a dormitory packed with pallet beds. He doubted Zevran would be held around here.

Back down the stairs, to try another door. Locked, and as he rattled the handle, someone shouted from the other side. “Forgot the password, brats?”

Surana took a slow breath in, gathering his focus, pulse hammering in a way that would feel sickening, if he wasn't so used to life-or-death crises. He cloaked himself in spells of preparation, to block missiles and weaken foes with a fog of entropic miasma. A swallow of lyrium potion restored his mana, with its distinctively sour, gritty taste. Then, as he'd done in Villa Faraz, he slammed the door with kinetic force, ripping it from its frame and smashing into the guard who stood behind. He leapt over the broken pieces, and rushed onward.

The corridor sloped down, emerging suddenly into a large cellar. No furniture save for two chairs, both occupied – one by a corpse in a blood-soaked Warden uniform, and the other by Zevran. Restrained, but conscious. The immediate problem was four Crows, all staring his way. Surana had hoped for a smoother approach, giving him time to plan battle tactics. So much for that.

Crossbow bolts glanced off his spell-shield. Three Crows moved to confront him, but one hung back, stepping towards Zevran instead. The dagger she held was already bloodied, her intention clear: remove the Warden's reason for fighting. Surana threw a freezing spell, and saw her stagger as shards of ice tore her face. Then he was forced to run, circuiting the room, trying to keep distance between himself and the others (stupid, risky behaviour for a mage, plunging into a melee like this, but the only thing stupider would be to stand still). A blade caught him above the hip, shallow but enough to make him falter. He lashed back with a blast of sheer mental power, and the Crows within range all crumpled, disabled for vital seconds.

“ _Amor_ _,_ ” Zevran greeted him, voice hoarse, as he stumbled the rest of the distance to Zevran's chair and began cutting the ropes, with the knife he'd taken in Villa Faraz. “You-” his voice caught in alarm, and Surana felt the blinding pain of a blade in the back, jamming between ribs.

Zevran kicked out with a freed leg, striking the guilty Crow, but the damage was done. Surana doubled over, struggling for breath. He steeled himself, tried to cast a healing spell, but his mind felt sluggish, link to the Fade severed. He reached back, managing to touch the embedded blade, and his fingers came away coated in dark, viscous indigo as well as red. Magebane.

Meanwhile, Zevran had escaped the rest of his bonds. He smashed the Crow in the face with the chair he'd been tied to – a blur of motion at the edge of Surana's vision, a crunch of wood and bone – before snatching the woman's daggers. “Don't worry, my dear Warden,” he said, with grim confidence, and Surana nodded weakly. A mage without magic was only a liability.

It was a swift, vicious fight. All Surana could do was watch, on his knees, snatching thin gasps of air, until Zevran stood over the final Crow, declaring, “You deserve a worse death than this.” With that, he dealt the killing blow, then hurried to Surana's side, the mask of professional cruelty melting instantly away, revealing a lover's concern. “Is it bad? Let me see.”

With a sharp, difficult breath, Surana leaned forward to let him examine the wound. He could taste blood in his throat, a watery note of iron. Zevran's fingers rested delicately on his back, and though the slightest touch made it hurt more, somehow it was comforting, not a thing to flinch from. Comfort to the soul, if not the body.

“Ah. This poison isn't fatal in itself, but if the wound isn't sealed your lung will collapse, and that is unpleasant at best. We need to make it airtight. Or perhaps leave the dagger in place for now, and that will be enough to block the air until your magic returns. ...I confess, healing is not my speciality.” He paused, then gave a shaky sigh, bowing his head to rest on Surana's shoulder with a strange air of vulnerability. For a moment, Surana wondered if he'd taken unseen injuries, but then his eyes strayed to the corpse in the Grey Warden uniform.

_His_ uniform, and a bag over its face. He understood what malicious trick the Crows had played. A mirror to how he'd deceived them, when they were following him across Antiva.

“I'm alive,” he said, softly. “We both are.”

“We are. But not if we linger in this place. Come, slowly now.” Zevran urged him to stand, a hand firm upon his back to try and stop the blade moving, causing more damage. Surana did so, painfully, and together they made their exit from the cellar, leaning on each other for support.

The journey that followed was vague to him, head spinning. Sneaking down alleys and corridors, through sunlight and then shadow, huddling out of sight whenever someone threatened to cross their path. The cut above his hip ached with every step. He had no clue where they were headed, and didn't have spare strength to ask, trusting Zevran's knowledge of the city to bring them to a safe place. Once, Zevran left him for a minute and went on ahead, then came back with fresh blood on his daggers.

Finally they came to rest in an alcove, an impression of sheltering stones and silent, dust-filled air, pale light filtering down from...somewhere. Surana couldn't identify the place beyond that. The back of his shirt and tunic were wet, sticking around the wound. Zevran was speaking, but Surana couldn't follow the words. In his mind, he kept fumbling for the lost connection to the Fade, waiting for the Magebane to wear off. He'd been hit with it before, once, and it was a potent but not long-lasting substance. Normally a few seconds was all it took to kill a mage, if their spells were disabled – and if they had no allies for protection.

There were bruises on Zevran's face, blurring together with the tattoos. Surana wanted to heal them, too disoriented to remember that he'd just been lamenting his lack of magic. He'd lost track of time. He smoothed unsteady fingers through Zevran's hair, calm despite his weakness, unafraid now that they were together again. They were veterans of worse than this.

Gradually, a sense of clarity returned. He touched Zevran's face, and this time the bruises vanished with a gentle glow. Zevran blinked, with an expression of mild surprise, but all he said was, “We can get that dagger out of you now, yes?”

“Yes, please.”

“On three.” Zevran reached back, gripping the handle. Surana followed the count, magic flowing through him to close the wound before air could rush into his chest. A deep breath, and relief at the lack of pain. Zevran cast the dagger away, dark droplets of blood and poison flicking off from it, soaked up by the floor's thick dust.

“There. Now we're out of immediate danger, I suggest we choose our next move with care.”

“I'll bow to your expertise in the field of avoiding Crows. Villa Faraz isn't an option, though. They had me locked up there. I killed the master of the house before I left.”

“I believe they only planned to hold you until after I was dead, and then let you walk free. Quite astonishing. Slaying that Archdemon really has given you a lot of good karma.”

“In fairness, it wasn't the easiest task.” Surana smiled, feeling more like himself. Zevran's irreverent manner of speech always cheered him, even when it seemed like it shouldn't (when they first met, he'd found it strange and annoying, but that was a long time ago). They both understood the truth of how serious things were, beneath the light words, but it didn't help to sour the air with complaints. “Will the chapel be open after nightfall?”

“The chapel?”

“I told you, didn't I? I was promised a husband, and won't stop until I have one.”

Zevran laughed, quiet and warm, and pressed a kiss to Surana's brow. “So you did. And they certainly won't think to hunt for us in there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I invest a lot of points in the Primal Cold and Entropy branches of magic.


	6. Chapter 6

Codex: Assessing One's Options

To my dear cousin Aileen,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have few complaints myself, though Mother claims I must keep going without my favourite pastries, as with so much farmland damaged by the Blight, we must eat more simply. I'd think that after a whole year, crops would have time to grow back!

But never mind that. Your search for a husband continues? It's sad that the accursed Blight also stole many eligible men from us, even amongst nobility. The new Teyrn of Highever mourns his late wife, so we must respect that, and I'm surprised Bann Ceorlic's sons can bear to be seen in public, after the embarrassment of their father insistently supporting Loghain. There is another option, though...it's quite radical, so please don't laugh at me! But have you considered the new Arl of Amaranthine?

You know, of course, he's the Hero of Ferelden, and surely that makes him a prize, even if he is an elf. Amaranthine would be a fine place to govern, with a pleasant climate and maritime trade routes. As for the Arl himself, I glimpsed him at Queen Anora's coronation, and he is exceptionally handsome. They say he conducts himself with dignity, and the people of Amaranthine are well pleased with him (setting aside that nastiness with Bann Esmerelle, but she always was a sour old thing). Any children you bore would look wholly human and normal, and while there's also a stain of magic in his blood, that trait can appear in even the purest of lines – just look at poor Arl Eamon's son!

Oh, they do say that he has a lover already, an elf from some exotic Northern place, but he is another man, and doubtless such a fruitless exercise won't last. Arl Surana is currently travelling outside of Ferelden, and when he returns, I'd encourage you to make his acquaintance. The match is a risky one, but in times like these, can we afford to be too picky? An Arl is an Arl, at the end of the day.

With good wishes and affection, your cousin,

Lydia Telmen.

 

* * *

 

From his view on the ship's deck, it looked as if Amaranthine had never been hit by the Blight at all, a busy port guarded by strong walls. The air was cold, even at this northernmost part of Ferelden, sea and sky washed-out and grey. Zevran remembered regarding the vista with depression, when he'd sailed here for the first time. He'd never been so alone as he was back then. He'd never been less alone than he was now. Breezes snatched at their cloaks, his crimson and his husband's royal blue (it was endearing, in a way, Evarin's insistence on wearing blues and silvers even when his uniform wasn't available, always showing his allegiance). There was colour here, if not out there.

His husband. The phrase sparkled with novelty, turned over in his mind and spoken aloud at every opportunity (as in, ' _my husband and I are seeking a ship to Ferelden'_ ). It seemed amazing that it had actually come to pass. He didn't think he'd ever stop being amazed, at the turns life could take.

Within the town, signs of conflict became clearer: buildings caged in scaffolding for repair, stone walls blackened by fire, a statue with arms broken away. Yet everywhere there were people, all the usual noise and motion of daily life. Town guards recognised Evarin on sight, and saluted smartly in welcome. They took a brief tour, with him pointing out notable places, and as he insisted upon linking their arms – not an unpleasant show of affection, but not the type of thing they normally bothered with – Zevran realised his other motive. Evarin wanted him to see the town, yes, but he also wanted the town to see _them_.

Their marriage had been simple, yet Zevran could think of nothing he would have added. They'd arrived at the chapel in Antiva City after dark, and startled the life out of a poor priestess tending candles (a fine pair they'd looked, with blood on torn clothes, clearly rushed straight from some dubious situation). Between the two of them, they managed to calm her and explain their intentions. A wedding should be conducted in _daylight_ , she insisted, with witnesses and proper ceremony – and rings, they hadn't even brought rings – yet she did not turn them away.

“I don't suppose you remember, but I was one of the boys who came here with Violeta, from the Dovecote whorehouse,” Zevran had said, partially to reassure the woman, partially to sate his own odd sense of nostalgia. “Many years ago, of course.”

“Violeta? I do remember that woman, although she's with the Maker now. Her path was not the easiest, yet she always remained pious.”

“That she did. And this charming man here is the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Which is why I speak your language with such an appalling accent,” Evarin added lightly.

“Doesn't he just? Still, quelling a Blight together helps you overlook a person's flaws. I've dragged him here, to a site of my misspent youth, to make honest men of us both. A lost cause, perhaps, but we can only try. So, good woman, do you think the Maker can extend His blessing?”

And in the end, she agreed. Perhaps she did believe them, or perhaps she thought them mad, and only wanted them out of her chapel quickly. No matter, either way.

The chapel was smaller and shabbier than he remembered – then again, last time he'd been here, he was smaller and shabbier himself – yet the soft lighting was forgiving, and the sense of peace after their brutal ordeal made it beautiful. Evarin's voice, as he repeated the words of the vow, was beautiful. The last time Zevran had attended a wedding, it was because the bride wanted two of her future in-laws killed off at the last minute.

And now, here he was. From Amaranthine, they took a well-trodden road to Vigil's Keep, the green shoots of springtime rising from damp earth at the roadside. It wasn't an elegant structure, with thick towers rather than spires, and looming, iron-banded gates whose many scars told their own story. Yet Evarin brightened as they drew close, as if this place were a home to him.

The first to greet them was an oversized hound, barrelling through mud to bounce and slobber joyfully over his master. Evarin laughed and knelt to pet the mabari, as calls went up around the Keep that the Warden-Commander was back. More salutes, from soldiers in fine silverite armour. Activity in the courtyard stilled as they crossed it, recruits pausing in their battles with training dummies, servants halting in unloading goods from a wagon, all eyes and conversations turned towards them. The Keep's inner doors opened for a handful of men and women in Grey Warden uniforms, and Evarin wiped the mabari's mud from his hands and took Zevran's arm again.

The dazzling pride with which he introduced Zevran Surana – no longer tied to the House which bought and tried its best to break him – would be a cherished memory for years afterwards. As Arainai he'd been nothing but an expendable puppet to point a blade. Now he was a defier of the miserable fate dealt to him, hero of the Fifth Blight, free to fulfil whatever wild dreams he could come up with (and he'd never been lacking in imagination). And Arl-Consort of Amaranthine. It had a good sound to it.

 

* * *

 

Codex: Persons of Interest

#281 Evarin Surana (Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, Arl of Amaranthine)

Surana first came to the House of Crows' attention in 9:20 Dragon, though not initially by name. Rendon Howe, then Arl of Amaranthine, issued a contract for the deaths of all Grey Wardens in his homeland. This was shortly after the Battle of Ostagar, which had already destroyed the vast bulk of Wardens in Ferelden, so it would only be a case of 'mopping up leftovers'. Regardless, the contract had a single bidder, named Zevran of House Arainai.

We have now pieced together what happened after Zevran reached Ferelden. There were only two surviving Wardens, Surana being one of these, and he failed to defeat them. Instead of killing him, they made the strange move of enlisting his help in ending the Fifth Blight. He and Surana also became lovers, though no import was placed on this until later.

Months passed. Then Taliesen, one of Zevran's former associates, travelled to Ferelden with a view to completing the contract, and attacked the Grey Wardens himself. Zevran chose to aid Surana in killing him, officially betraying us. Howe was killed by the pair shortly after this, making his contract void. They went on to defeat the Archdemon, and end the Blight.

Eventually Zevran returned to Antiva, now an independent force intent on causing trouble for us. Surana assumed the titles of Warden-Commander and Arl of Amaranthine, which led to a second contract being taken out against him, by a Bann Esmerelle. The winning bidder was House Lereto, which sent its five best assassins against him. All were slain, along with the Bann herself, and the House dissolved soon afterwards in disgrace.

It emerged that Surana was still attached to Zevran, first by the discovery of letters sent between them, and then by Surana's own arrival in Antiva. By the time they left our borders again, they were responsible for the deaths of every Crow who'd come into contact with them.

Evarin Surana is a prodigious archmage, whose exploits have earned him significant influence despite his elven heritage. Further contracts against him should be ignored unless massive fees are offered, and only made available to the highest-ranked Talons. Frankly, the man is more trouble than he's worth, and best left to his own devices.

 

* * *

 

Another night in chambers fit for an Arl, and Evarin was up late, working on that manuscript of his by the light of an enchanted lamp. He hadn't noticed Zevran sneak across the room, reading over his shoulder. It was more fun like this, rather than asking to read it directly – and Zevran thought it fair, as he'd seen his own name mentioned repeatedly. Not that he feared anything unflattering would be said.

The work was drawing to a close. Evarin had described his battle with the Archdemon, and following trials in Amaranthine. He'd given only a brief mention of the journey to Antiva, and Zevran approved of this choice, as it was a different, more personal adventure than the others they'd been through. General mishaps, blunders in battle, sexual exploits, all of that was fair game for storytelling so far as he was concerned, but there was something different about love and the almost-loss of it, too raw to expose to just anyone.

_I conclude my story now, sitting at a desk in Vigil's Keep. The Darkspawn are vanquished, for the time being, and my companions were all well last I spoke to them. The Circle Tower, my former home, is steadily recovering, as is the rest of Ferelden. There are mabari pups sleeping in the warmth of the Keep's kitchens. Life is quiet, and good._

_I don't expect it will remain so forever. Someday, another conflict will rise up to test us. Someday the taint in my blood, which makes me a Grey Warden, will overpower my will and I must answer the Calling. But I don't consider myself cursed for that, any more than I do for other aspects of my being which some would look down upon. In all things, I feel blessed. My deeds and words will outlive me, and perhaps when the next Blight lies over Thedas – centuries from now, we should hope – my successor will read this and be inspired, as I was once inspired by the tale of Garahel._

_Upon that note, I shall end this._

Zevran watched as he added a flourishing signature, before breaking the silence. “Certain you wish to end it there, _amor?_ We have decades of adventuring ahead of us, yet.”

Evarin tensed up slightly in surprise, but chose not to ask the obvious question, of how long Zevran had been standing there. “Nothing bigger than what we've already been through, I hope. And it's only a first draft. I wanted to end on some wise, meaningful statement, but...” He tapped the feathered end of the pen against his lips, apparently dissatisfied.

“If I may make a suggestion... The Calling is not such a certain thing, is it? There _are_ rumours of cures, if you wish to pursue them.” Not things one would casually overhear, but they existed, for those with a special interest to sharpen their attention.

“There are rumours of all kinds.” Evarin fell silent, then added in a graver tone, “I have already cheated a true Warden's death, once.”

It caught Zevran off-guard. Neither of them had spoken of _that_ since it happened, the type of wound that healed better from being bound tight and hidden, rather than aired and prodded at. The dark night at Redcliffe Castle, when Evarin had approached him with a miserable expression, explaining the choice Morrigan offered. Unwanted faithlessness, or destruction of the soul – weighed up like that, it seemed clear what must be done, and yet he'd do nothing without permission, placing his life in Zevran's hands. Foolish, sentimental man.

“Are you not a true Warden, then? Have you not eased the suffering of thousands? Is it greed, wishing to live on in the world you have saved?” He stepped closer to Evarin's chair, placing hands upon his shoulders, using contact to emphasise the words. “Would things be better if you lay in some decorated tomb now, rather than being here with me?”

Evarin paused, then allowed a faint smile. “No. You're right.”

“Another choice for you, then: shall we wait passively for your Calling, die together in the Deep Roads and have darkspawn gnaw our bones? Or live to be doting old fools, so that when we tell tales of slaying Archdemons, the young folk laugh and shake their heads at us?”

“You'd be happy as a doting old fool?”

“With you by my side, why not?” Not so long ago, he wouldn't have thought it. Killing, sex, and wild adventures of all sorts were better enjoyed with youth and strength on your side, and he didn't relish the idea of age weakening his limbs or greying his hair. So long as Evarin looked at him with love, though, he thought he could bear it. If they had a choice between twenty years together, or forty, he would like to aim for forty. If these were the fairytale days of Arlathan, where centuries passed like heartbeats, then he would be glad for that, too.

And on the day he and Evarin first met, he'd planned to never see another sunrise. No, he'd never stop being amazed at the turns life could take, and never again resign himself to the worst.

“Very well. Let's chase these rumours, then.” Evarin tilted his head upwards, and Zevran leaned over to kiss him, the seal of a promise.

 

* * *

 

Codex: Another Letter

Greetings from Kirkwall!

For once, I believe I'm ahead of time in sending this. My first impression of this city, however, was rather grim. Did you know, the entrance to their harbour is lined with giant statues of slaves? They date from when Tevinter controlled this place, but surely the current government could replace them with something more welcoming. I'd suggest a series of voluptuous sea nymphs. Just the thing to greet sailors after a long voyage, no?

As for the purpose of my visit, there is indeed a black market in obscure manuscripts here, mostly unearthed from tunnels beneath the city. I've yet to find anything of use, but it's early days yet. Are you still translating those old Grey Warden diaries we got from Nevarra?

I do seem to have drawn the attention of a few Crows – whether they arrived here by coincidence on their own business, or are pursuing me in particular, I cannot tell. No matter, though. The situation is under control, no need for any heroic rescues this time (unless, of course, you feel a passionate urge to stage one).

Yours always,

Z.

**Author's Note:**

> I read all the phylactery-related lore I could find, and didn't run into anything that'd make that plot point impossible. So there it is.  
> Next chapter will be from Zevran's PoV because let's be honest, he's the one we're all really here for.


End file.
